HD 'First Things First'
by tigersilver
Summary: EWE, AU, post-War, inspired by DH1. Short drabble and one in which snark and furniture are featured prominently. This was my chance to go after that Glorious Armchair Wand Scrabble scene and I so did!


_**Author: **_ _**tigersilver**____**  
**__**Pairing: H/D**__**  
**__**Rating: NC-17**__**  
**__**Word Count: um, 1,000+/-**__**  
**__**Warnings: Another short drabble and one in which snark and furniture is featured! This was my chance to go after that Glorious Armchair Wand Scrabble' and I loved it! **__**Set sometime in the future, which is of course AU and EWE, and a gift for these lovely peeps: **_ _**mayfly_78 , **_ _**bleedforyou1 and **_ _**vwalk (yes, I see you, luv! ~~~Waves!) **_

**HD 'First Things First'**

There was this armchair in the Manor and the very first thing Harry Potter did (when he moved in, officially) was confiscate it for his study.

Draco, who no longer cared so much for things like furniture and decorative bibelots, it being his vocation and means of financial support, had some trouble grasping just why this particular piece was of such importance to the man in his life. True, he boasted some vague flesh-memories of oyster-grey fabric scraping his cheek and catching at his clothing, of grinding his kneecaps across springy cushions—of bony knuckles butting against his sweaty palms as they grabbed away wands and of furious, understanding eyes that never left his—yes, _that_. He recalled that, quite clearly. The chair, though? That particular one? It mattered not at all to Draco. They were ten for a Galleon, armchairs of that sort. And Harry could have anything he wished or desired; anything a wealthy man could gift another, as long as he would stay Draco's. If he wished a battered, somewhat worse for wear place to park his arse in his own private sanctum, no one would give a damn and certainly not Draco.

But what of it, this odd little quirk of Potter's? He merely chuckled when Harry took the chair (commandeered it, more like, as he'd taken charge of Draco's arsehole and stolen away every other orifice as well, the bloody pirate!) and rearranged a few items in the parlour they never used to cover up for the missing piece. As to the room itself, they'd shagged there, true enough, on the first heady round of their relationship (where they'd christened every space in the manor and every outbuilding in the gardens, which had taken quite some time and effort, really). Too, they'd suffered through a vicious little tiff over what Draco should have done that particular time and exactly what Harry would have had him _do_, really—that also ending, most fortunately, in a randy shag. But—_but_, they'd not bothered themselves much with that room after.

It was not as though it was off-limits. Just, only, that it, like the dungeons and the maze, and a few other locations of historical note, were not places either chose to be. They lived their lives in the sunny south-facing side of the Manor for the most part, and were quite content.

But Harry was really _very_ odd over that one chair. He'd tied Draco to it with bonds of silk several times; he'd bent him over the arm of it and smacked his arse on a few occasions in recent memory—too, he'd had Draco balanced on his lap and wildly riding his dick atop it more times than even Draco (who remembered such things and actually wrote them down in his diary) could recall. The shot-silk upholstery was worn in places—there were stains of various sorts (the elves were uniformly appalled, but they adored Master Harry and wouldn't dare touch what he asked them not to), and all in all, it was rather disreputable, that armchair.

It held pride of place in Harry's study nonetheless and Draco simply adored it—a feeling he denied most vehemently when Pansy asked, naturally.

"Oh, this ratty old thing?" he'd replied one fine late autumn evening, when Pansy inquired rather pointedly as to why the redecorating in the Manor was so odd and spotty in bits when Draco Malfoy was known for his outstanding taste in _objets d'art_ and such. Indeed, made an entire other fortune in just that way, despite the ill manners of the _hoi polloi._ "It's not mine to dispose of, Pans. His Nibs has taken a liking to it and it's not worth the upheaval to have it carted away. It stays, I'm afraid."

He flapped a careless hand at it and helped himself to another crumb of Stilton, unfazed by any slurs cast on his taste.

Pansy had smiled (a very feline smile she had, oddly reminiscent of Harry's own on certain days, especially after a difficult day at the Ministry) and tilted her head curiously over her glass of sherry. She nodded meaningfully at Draco and the questionable old armchair, which was busily doing nothing so much as being a blameless but plebian blot on the rich landscape of Harry's red-and-gold hued study.

"You're so incredibly cock-whipped by Potter, Draco, it's hysterically comical. I mean that in a good way, naturally."

Draco, whose fine arse ('exquisite', to be sure, or so the most powerful Wizard in the world claimed, and he should know) was planted firmly in just that same worn out ancient armchair, wriggled his buttocks contentedly on the newly restuffed cushions and grinned a sly, satisfied crocodile smile in return.

"I know," he drawled, lounging into an elegant sprawl. Yes, this chair was sturdy; should hold up well into the next century, and likely Harry would wish to pass it on to one of the less fortunate kiddies. "But—rather brilliant to be envied for it, isn't it? Poor you, Pans, going without—and the rest of the world, too."

"Insufferable ponce," Pansy purred.

"Officious bitch," Draco winked. "Nosy, too."

"Ridiculous Slytherins," Harry remarked, poking his head in, and called them both down to the Floo to depart for the cinema. "Come on, now."


End file.
